


A Blossoming of Color

by kingtatsunari



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Synesthesia, Teenlock, british sort of, descriptions of food, john has synesthesia, maybe smut?, sherlock is broody in the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtatsunari/pseuds/kingtatsunari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For John Watson, all names have their own individual tastes. Until one day, one name triggers absolutely nothing.</p><p>(this work is unfinished, and will most likely never be finished.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tang of Jam

John Watson leans back in his chair and taps his feet on the legs of his desk.

Tap tap tap... tap... tap... tap... tap tap tap—

"Would you cut it out?" Rugby captain Greg Lestrade twists his body backwards to face John with an annoyed expression.

"Sure," John mumbles, straightening his back and pulling his feet in to himself. The sweet zest of leather fills his mouth, and he resists the urge to smack his lips in eagerness.

 _Greg Lestrade_  

The name floats around in his head until almost instantaneously, the taste of leather fills his mouth again.

The teacher walks in and immediately shushes the rowdy students. John, of course, is sitting patiently with his hands folded loosely in his lap. John's always been told his whole life that he was the patient kind. The quiet kind. The kind that didn't make trouble.

And John was fine with that. He didn't mind that label, because it was true. It was true, only for the fact that he didn't have much to say in the first place. And so he was quiet.

"Mr. Freeman, is our essay due today?"

 _Mr. Freeman_  

The oomph of a warm, home cooked meal (particularly roast beef and corn) swallows his taste buds in flavor, and he gives a little _mmm_  of appreciation.

He hears a faint, "Yes," from the front of the classroom, and a little groan of disappointment somewhere else, but everything else is overshadowed by the plump roast melting on his tongue, the juices splashing down his throat—

"Mr. Watson? You look a bit strange."

John looks up, and sees all thirty, plus Mr. Freeman, of his classmates staring right at him. His cheeks flush in embarrassment, and the spiciness of a jalapeno billows into his mouth and tides over his tongue and teeth. "I- I'm fine, sir," John manages to stutter out before he looks down at his scuffed sneakers.

Mr. Freeman gives John one last concerned look before directing all his attention onto his students. "Get out your math worksheets, we're going over the answers," he says as John starts subconsciously tapping his feet again.

At lunch, he does what he always does at lunch: stare mournfully at his limp, pathetic lump of a sandwich that will never get eaten. He knows it, the sandwich knows it, and the whole school knows it.

Which is why everyone gathers around his table, begging for his uneaten food. Do they ever not get hungry?

After lunch is even worse. He has History, the most boring subject ever taught. The teacher, Ms. Donovan, drones on and on about the Crusades, and all the battles of medieval Europe.

John, frankly, doesn't really give a flying duck.

"Hey, Watson! Over here!" John looks up, and a crumpled piece of paper is flying his way. He catches it just as the thick sweetness of jam flows into his mouth. It's what happens when he hears his own name. John... Hamish Watson, he thinks as the paper ball is thrown back to its owners, the ball flying through the air and landing perfectly in Greg's hands. Greg gives John a subliminal thumbs up just before Ms. Donovan turns in their direction and the tang of jam shadows everything else.

John stifles a smile. Ms. Donovan hates seeing smiles in her class. She always seems to think that it's the sign of off task students, which, to be fair, is pretty much always true.

 _Greg Lestrade_  

More leather, this time topped with a tinge of what can only be completely described as excitement.

 _Ms. Donovan_  

Her name brings upon a torrent of freshly mown grass, thrown in his mouth and left for him to chew upon forever.

He hates the taste of mown grass. It makes him nauseous. Practically everything does, though, so he can't blame the woman.

When the final bell rings, and all the students have burst out of the school, that's when John finally lets out his breath and lowers his guard. All throughout school, he keeps a watchful eye. For what, he isn't much too sure, but he's certain that this habit will come in handy one day.

Walking home isn't a chore. Instead, it's a way for him to run through the events of the day back through his head. He wonders, _what was it I had for lunch today_

_What was Ms. Donovan talking about today_

_wait Did Greg invite me to his house after school_

_Grass, and leather, and the combined taste is horrible_

_No, why would he invite me_  

John laughs quietly to himself, his thoughts jostling each other as they all trample one another, trying to get themselves known.

_You're not popular enough_

_But they like my food_

_That's bribing that's not popularity_

_Stop why do you care_

_Because Harry cares about_

_me_  

John stops walking, and the tangy pop of orange fizzles around his tongue. _Harry Watson_  

He gets home and goes through his usual routine: he greets his mother, greets his sister, strips out of his clothes, throws on casual clothing, speeds through his homework, greets his father, has dinner, brushes his teeth, goes to bed.

All the while, different tastes of different foods appear and disappear as fast as they come.

 _Mother_  

The juice of a peach lingers on his tongue.

 _Father_  

The thickness of mashed potatoes sits in his mouth, waiting to be eradicated by his quick mind.

Night is the only time where everything can just slow down, where John can lay silently and unwind. He's noticed, over time, that when he closes his eyes and thinks of a name, no tastes bubble up from the recesses of his brain. His mother doesn't know why, his doctor doesn't know why, and he certainly doesn't know why. 

 _It's not like the names cause me any physical pain, though,_  he thinks as he climbs into bed and flicks off the light. He reaches and grabs the edge of his blanket, pulls it over himself, and closes his eyes.

_Even if they don't cause me physical pain_

_Why do I even have this condition_

_Everyone else is normal_

_I'm not_  

He tiptoes over the line of consciousness and disappears into the shadows of madness.

 _John Watson_  

The tang of jam fills his mouth.


	2. Technical Issues

"Mate, you really have to stop tapping your feet."

John stares guiltily up at an annoyed Greg. "I'm sorry, I can't help it," he mumbles, and crosses his feet so they'll stop moving.

"Do you have ADHD or something? Maybe you should get a test."

John freezes. "N- no, I don't n- need any tests f-for anything." The background taste of leather lingers in his suddenly dry mouth.

Greg stares down at a sweating John. "Are you okay? You look a bit flustered, mate. Something wrong?"

John tries to keep his breathing at a minimal level. "I- I'm fine. Just... uh... thinking about our finals." _Nobody can know about my disorder_

"This early in the year?" Greg looks skeptical.

"Y- yeah. Gotta get an early start, you know?"

Greg stares suspiciously down at John, but his glare is cut short by the entering of Mr. Freeman and a new student. _Mr. Freeman_  

The taste of a fresh roast melts on his tongue, but he dismisses the taste with a brief close of the eyes. He stares curiously at the new student, as is everyone else. The student's curls hang loosely over his brooding eyes, and his feet drag on the floor as if they're glued there and can't be bothered to exert any effort. He looks up, and his turquoise eyes lock with John's dark chocolate ones. A shock runs through John's body, and he jumps up, his desk rattling. Greg turns his head back and shoots him an exasperated look.

John keeps looking at the student, who is currently surveying everybody in the classroom with those piercing eyes of his. Most of the students are cringing away from his scowl, and John understands why. It's like those eyes are digging into his soul, extracting his deepest, darkest secrets that only he knows and displaying them for everyone to see.

Mr. Freeman turns around, totally oblivious to the new kids' effect on his students. "Well, class, we have a new student!" he says cheerfully, clapping his hands together for effect. John leans forward, anxious and excited to hear his name so he can know its flavor. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's from Sussex, and he's very happy to be with us."

John grins. New names are always a joy, and he can bet that Sherlock Holmes's flavor is unique.

The taste never comes.

His smile melts into a frown, and he wants to rattle his insides to see if he's okay. John raises his hand, wanting Mr. Freeman ( _roast beef and candy sweet corn_ ) to say Sherlock's name again so he can convince himself that he's normal— or, at least, normal for his standards. "Yes, John?" Mr. Freeman addresses John with a grin, clearly happy that at least one of his students is participating in the introduction of a new classmate.

"What was his name again?" John prays, hoping that Mr. Freeman won't just brush off his question. He also, with his little spark of hope, braces himself for a burst of taste.

"Sherlock Holmes, John. Sherlock, this is John Watson, in case you were wondering."

John stares at Sherlock, willing himself for something to happen, _anything to happen_  but he gets the same results as before. Nothing.

Sherlock stares back, his eyebrows furrowing as if in deep thought. Mr. Freeman watches their little battle, his eyes flickering across the classroom. "Sherlock, we've got two seats available. One next to John, and one next to our Mr. Philip Anderson."

Everybody's heads turn towards John and Anderson, some snickering at the very mention of Anderson's name. Sherlock takes all this in, and you could hear the machinery in his head working as he quickly makes his decision. "I'll take the seat beside John," he says. His first words in the classroom. Even he can make seat taking sound good.

_Wait, what?_

John muses about the problem at hand. Why, why, why can't he taste anything when he hear his name? John's eyes are wide open, so there isn't any excuse. He turns his head sideways and sees Sherlock rummaging in his backpack. He pulls out a freshly sharpened pencil and turns his head sideways towards John, flicking the pencil up and down in a threatening manner and narrows his eyes. John quickly straightens his head, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock.

The rest of maths goes on like this, John trying his hardest not to mentally or physically connect with Sherlock Holmes, and it seems (at least to him) that Sherlock is doing the same. Mr. Freeman, apparently, mistakes this for John being especially focused today, and calls on him about ten times throughout class. Even though maths isn't his best subject, he still gets nine out of ten problems correct, and Mr. Freeman seems okay with that.

John can still see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, and keeps rolling the question around and around in his head: Why can't he taste anything when he hears or thinks about Sherlock Holmes's name?

Maybe if he asks him, he'll have an answer.

John quickly dismisses the thought, not even knowing how to begin about how stupid that thought is. For starters, what would he even ask? _I have synesthesia, and it doesn't work when you're around. Do you know why?_

It even sounds idiotic in his head.

Maths finally ends, and John rushes out of the classroom, knocking into a few people along the way. They shoot him a few glares, but he doesn't dwell on them as he makes his way to his spot. _His spot._  It's not his spot, technically, but he's the only one who ever sits there, so he's sort of claimed it as his own.

There's a small hidden nook, in the school's quad. If somebody would walk to the top right of the giant square piece of land, and peeked in the corner, they would see a tiny hallway that curved around to a single bench with a small tree and some miscellaneous flowers. The space isn't huge, though it's big enough for two people to sit comfortably with their knapsacks and binders.

John walks, making sure nobody follows him, James Bond style, and collapses on the bench, letting all of his exhaustion and frustration show by punching his fist onto the cold metal. He throws his backpack to the ground and relaxes on the bench, taking advantage of the short fifteen minute break.

John doesn't know if anybody else does this, but he likes to talk to himself. It's not as if he has any friends who would listen to him talk about his problems.

"Today, I met Sherlock Holmes," John savors his name for a second, letting the syllables vibrate through his teeth. "And he seems... mysterious. He barely says anything and can look right at you and... you feel like he sees all your secrets. I feel a bit sorry for Anderson, though. He's not that bad.

"My... my synthesia doesn't work around him. I have no idea why. Maybe I should... no, Mother can't afford another trip to the doctors. We're already running low on funds by... by purchasing my medication.." He looks down at his scuffed sneakers just as the bell rings, shaking him away from his thoughts of his smiling mother, the one person who worked so hard for _him._

John gets up from the bench, reluctantly slinging his knapsack back onto his shoulders and heads to his English class, mind still running rampant with pictures of a certain Holmes.


	3. Ups and Downs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not posting last week! I was very busy, and didn't have time to edit, and gah! Thanks to my new, wonderful beta [aiis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aiis) who helped me tremendously with this chapter. You're amazing.

From the day that he's introduced to Sherlock Holmes, John keeps working up the courage to speak to him. Maybe, and this is a huge _maybe_ , if he gets to know Sherlock better, then the answer to his problem will emerge. He isn't making it easy, though.

Once, John turned towards Sherlock and opened his mouth to say a simple, "Hello," but before John could even utter a sound, Sherlock jumped up from his seat and headed towards the pencil sharpener. He stared at Sherlock's turned back, mouth falling open.

The next time he gathers up his courage again, it's been a month and it's almost winter break. Mr. Freeman is letting everybody have their phones out, so everybody is texting everyone else. The _pings_  of messages being sent are the only sounds in the room.

Sherlock and John are the only ones sitting without their eyes glued to a screen. John turns towards Sherlock, red rushing to his cheeks as he remembers the last time he tried to talk to him. Nevertheless, he opens his mouth and words tumble out as quickly as they appear in his mind. John is determined to have Sherlock hear him out this time. "So... you don't have a phone?"

Sherlock turns in his seat to face John with narrowed, defensive eyes. "Are you trying to make fun of me?" He crosses his arms.

John's eyes widen; he doesn't expect this response, but says the first thing that pops into his head. "No. I don't have one either. See?" He spreads his hands wide open.

Sherlock sniffs, then turns his head forward again. "I do have a phone, you know," he says haughtily. "I'm just choosing not to use it. Who would I text with it, anyways?" His expression turns into one of distaste. "Except relatives. But who would want to text them?" Sherlock mumbles.

John doesn't catch the second part, but he still continues. "You have family?"

"A brother. Parents, obviously, or I wouldn't be here."

"You like your brother?"

Sherlock frowns at John just as the bell rings. He briskly sweeps his bag up, disappearing into the crowd in the hallway. John's smile dissipates and he stares at the empty desk. Did he make a mistake?

Sherlock doesn't talk to John for three more days. Or John doesn't talk to him. It's a lonesome three days. School wraps up in a day, and John has been getting a bit frantic, spending every waking second devising plans to get Sherlock to at least say a word to him. He has been sitting at his desk, staring at his folded hands for about half the period when he feels a hesitant tap on his right arm. He turns.

"Hello," Sherlock says a bit reluctantly, like he had lost a battle with himself.

John tries to suppress a smile. Was Sherlock actually _offering_  to talk to him?

Sherlock crosses his arms and says, "If you don't want to talk to me, just say so. Don't sit there and try to suppress giggles."

John's laughs fizzle out and he stares at Sherlock in wonder. "I... I _do_  want to talk to you. I'm just wondering why... why you would want to talk to me first."

Sherlock grimaces, as if bracing himself to say something morally wrong. "Nobody else has offered to talk to me yet, and seeing as you've tried to talk to me before, which makes you a bit smarter, it's the logical decision to talk to you first, since you're obviously sulking at my ignoring of you for three days."

John stares at Sherlock, trying to process his words as quickly as he can. "Was that... a compliment or an insult?" he asks, asking the question slowly.

Sherlock sighs, his impatience showing, but graces John with a response anyways. "Depends if you're an optimist or a pessimist."

"Oh. Okay. I'll just take it as a compliment."

They stare at each other through all of the last-days-before-break-excitement coming from their fellow students. Sherlock looks as though he's trying to probe through John's brain, while John looks a bit confused. "So... ready for break?" John asks, curious about Sherlock's personal life.

"Small talk isn't necessary if you want to talk to me." Sherlock is blunt and races straight to the point.

"I'm not trying to make small talk. I actually want to know your plans, if you have any. Going anywhere?"

Sherlock quirks the corner of his lips up in a half smile. "Indoors. Unless I have somewhere to go with other people, which I don't. No one intelligent I know has friends, so why should I have them either?" He says the word _friends_  distastefully.

John raises an eyebrow. "You could come over to my house," he says. Cautiously, because he feels that rejection is imminent.

Sherlock's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out for a second. "Come over... to your house?" Sherlock asks, his face obscuring any emotion.

John feels the panic creeping into his head, clouding his brain with murky fog. "N- th- that's only if you w- want. I'm not f- forcing you."

Sherlock curves the edges of his cupid bow lips up. "I'd love to come to your house."

John's mouth drops open, and Sherlock reaches over to close it. Their skin connects, and he would swear later that he could feel an electric current running through his body, stemming from that spot. John's upper and lower lip jam together, and the bell rings. Sherlock retracts his hand and gracefully leaves, with John still sitting there stunned.

On the second to last day of school before break, Sherlock hands John a phone. "Take it. I don't want it."

John widens his eyes and faces Sherlock. "I can't take this! It's yours. Here, take it back." John tries to hand the phone back to Sherlock, but Sherlock just scoots farther away on his chair.

"It's a gift. Keep it." Sherlock folds the phone around John's hands and covers John's hands with his own. John has to resist the urge to gasp. His hands, though pale, are surprisingly warm compared to John's regularly cold ones.

"I... I will. Thanks, Sherlock." He tugs the hand with the phone away from Sherlock's, but keeps the other hand in Sherlock's hand and squeezes. Pink flushes appear on Sherlock's cheeks.

John turns the phone on, flicking through the screens. There's no extra apps or anything personal. the only contact in the list is... Sherlock? _Does he want me to call him?_  A flash of realization zaps through John's brain, dissipating the warmness from their entwined hands. "This... isn't yours, is it? It's new."

Sherlock looks disappointed. "Yes."

"Why?" John clutches at Sherlock's hand, and he swears that he can feel Sherlock tightening his hand too.

"Because—" Sherlock is cut off by a sneer.

"Look at those two faggots."

John and Sherlock's hands rapidly detach, and they spin their heads to the source of the words. Everyone turns their head and stops talking. Mr. Freeman looks up. "Why are we all so quiet?" he jokes. Seeing everybody's grave faces, he quietly looks back down at his work, and all of the students start to nervously chatter again. The volume of the classroom slowly turns back to normal, if normal was a deafening roar.

"James." Sherlock narrows his eyes, throwing the whole weight of his intense stare onto the student, but James barely flinches.

 _James._  A large slab of metal is slapped onto John's tongue, and he flinches from the intensity of the taste. Something sprinkles a pinch of dust in his mouth, and he cringes.

"Please," James smirks devilishly, "call me Moriarty. It's much more... sexy."

Sherlock curls his fingers on the side of the desk. His knuckles turn white from the effort, and John hesitantly places a shaking hand on Sherlock's back. "Come off of it, James, we're not dating," John growls, suddenly feeling protective.

Moriarty lets out a _mmm_. "Why, Watson, I once believed that you would never lie. Turns out, I'm wrong!" His voice is dangerously calm, and then he lets out an enormous laugh that ends as quickly as it starts. All the students start to turn towards the commotion and smirk, knowing that John and Sherlock are about to be destroyed.

John hears a desk chair roll and hit the wall, but he doesn't pay too much attention to it. He should have. He turns his head left to see Mr. Freeman standing.

"James, I'm going to have to tell you and all the rest of the student to go back to your desks." Mr. Freeman clips every word of the sentence. He seems to be on the brink of anger and despair. His voice is a rumbling tide of thunder, but also contains a hint of a tremble. Phillip Anderson, a "friend" of Jim's, trips running back to his desk.

The bell rings, and all the students hurriedly exit the classroom, jostling each other to escape the wrath of Mr. Freeman. Sherlock and John keep sitting in their chairs, not making an effort to move. "You okay?" John asks softly, his hand still on Sherlock's back.

"Fine," Sherlock says. He fidgets away from John's touch and sweeps out of the room, leaving his backpack behind. 

"Wait!" John shouts. "You forgot! Your... backpack," he yells in desperation, then sighs.

"John?" Mr. Freeman is sitting again, and his voice is determined.

"Sir?" John has never seen Mr. Freeman like this.

"Go after him."

John doesn't even hesitate as he scoops up both backpacks, throws his new phone in his backpack, and starts jogging to the door. He's standing near the door frame when Mr. Freeman speaks up again. "You know, for those three days you weren't talking, he looked really sad. When he... he thought you weren't looking."

John turns back, his eyes flickering with sadness. "I know."

Then, he rushes out of the room in search for Sherlock.


	4. A Happy Ending?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all that left wonderful comments! They really meant a lot to me, and made my days better than the stupid things they were before. Also, thank you to the best beta in the world, [aiis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aiis). These chapters would have been totally different (in a bad way) without you.

John wanders the empty corridors of the school. Everybody is in class, ignorant to the turmoil of thoughts sprinting through John's panicked head. He keeps feeling the bump of a shard of glass on his tongue, and it constantly pokes into various parts of his mouth. The ting of blood slides down his throat, and his whole mouth tastes of cranberries.

The place he first looks in is the most obvious— the bathroom. He runs into the three available bathrooms, each empty, empty, and depressingly empty. Next, he runs out into the courtyard, a single tear slipping down his cheek. His vision becomes blurred with tears, and he trips on a lone stone and falls, crashing hard onto the concrete ground. John can faintly feel a stinging pain on his knee and the blurred sourness of chlorine, but he can't think of anything else but finding Sherlock.

His sight? He can see Sherlock, complete with his coat fluttering behind him and wind tousled hair.

His hearing? He can hear Sherlock's low baritone voice whispering for him to take it, _take him away._

His smell? Sherlock's shampoo is fruity, with a strong scent of strawberries. John longs to dig his nose in his curls and tug the strands firmly against his chest, encircling Sherlock with his arms.

His touch? Sherlock's soft coat unfurls under his soft touch, his hands running along the dark wool.

Taste? None, at the moment. But that will change. At least, that's what John hopes.

He gets up again, energy replenished by the presence of Sherlock. He stumbles around the courtyard in a haze, looking everywhere for him. John calls his name, tears splashing onto the bumpy stone. Finally, John heads towards his little spot, needing some comfort in his frantic mind.

When he sees the sees the familiar hallway, he cracks a small smile and wipes away his tears. He couldn't be sad in a place like this, a place where he'd confessed his secrets to, a place where he'd poured his soul out to.

He just couldn't.

What made it even better was that Sherlock was sitting on the bench with his knees drawn up to his chin, arms around his legs. His coat almost brushed the ground, and his scarf hung untied around his neck. "Sherlock," John whispers.

Sherlock looks up, and John can finally see his eyes. They look haunted, and John's heart breaks in two. "Sherlock, love, come here," he says breathlessly, and opens his arms. The endearment falls from his lips, like it belonged there. John knew it did. Sherlock quietly unfolds from his position and walks into John's arms. John tucks his head under Sherlock's chin and sighs in relief.

"How did you know I was here?" Sherlock asks, his voice hoarse.

John smiles. "This was my spot first."

"Really?"

"Really." They're subconsciously swaying now, rocking from one foot to the other. It's like they're dancing to an invisible waltz, a waltz that only they can hear.

"Love."

John looks up at Sherlock. "Love?" John cracks a smile, laughing at his own thoughts. "We've known each other for a few months, and I think I might..."

They stare into each other's eyes, John having to tilt his head up and Sherlock looking down. "Might what?" Sherlock's voice is dripping with adoration.

"I might have found love."

* * *

 

The next day, they walk in _together_ into Mr. Freeman's classroom. Their hands are glued together, and John can't seem to wipe his silly grin off his face. Sally flashes them looks of disgust and Moriarty is mocking their entwined hands, but the pair of them couldn't care less. All they can see is each other— and, of course, Mr. Freeman's beaming face.

At the end of class, Mr. Freeman bursts into happy tears. "I can't believe you two are together!" he blubbers, knocking his stapler over to reach for his tissues. "I mean," he dabs at his eyes, "Mrs. Hudson said you would, but I didn't believe it!"

John and Sherlock share a smile, their hands twisted under their desks. "Mr. Freeman, we're not getting married," Sherlock deadpans.

"Yet," John laughs, and Sherlock flicks John's arm with his unoccupied hand. He's the happiest anyone has ever seen him, and John's proud to say that it's all his fault.

A few girls in the back are _awwing_ and cooing, but the rest of the students look sick.

John shoots them the finger.

Sherlock looks at John's face, to his finger, and back again, and decides to mimic John.

Mr. Freeman shakes his head and waves his tissue condescendingly, but smiles all the same.

At the end of the school day, John decides to ask Sherlock to his house. "We're dating, it's only procedure!" John protests when Sherlock briskly shakes his head no.

"As much as I like spending time with you, I don't think I'm ready to—"

"Ready to what, Holmes?" Moriarty and Co. are back again, cutting off Sherlock and John's path on the sidewalk. John can feel the taste of bile creeping up his throat, and he swallows, trying to ignore his turning stomach.

Jim smirks. "Did you hear me, Sherlock, or is your boyfriend deaf, Watson?"

John balls his fists. "Get out of the way."

"Or what, hmm?" Moriarty smirks, Irish lilt discernible in his words.

Sherlock turns away and digs around in his backpack. Moriarty gives a dead laugh. "Oh, look at him pulling gadgets out, fun, fun, what fun," he says, slurring his last few words.

John stares at Sherlock with questioning eyes. _What are you doing?_

Sherlock halts his digging for a split second to look into John's eyes. _Wait._

"Hurry up, boys! I have other things to do," Moriarty snaps his fingers. "Or I'll make my boys hurry it up for you." The two buffest men next to Jim nod, their crooked features sliding up in a crude smile.

Sherlock finally finds what he's been looking for. It's his phone. Moriarty's smile slips, but he keeps the facade up. He was probably expecting something with more of a flourish to it.

He taps on the phone screen— five taps— and holds up the screen. On the screen is a man, sporting a serious expression, a suit, and an umbrella. Moriarty's eyes widen when he sees the man. He shrinks back a bit, and his group shield him from the phone. Sherlock has a triumphant smirk plastered on his face.

Finally, the group round a corner, still shielding Moriarty, and disappear from sight. Sherlock smiles widely and drops his phone back into his backpack, slinging the straps onto his shoulders. "I'll come to your house," he says briskly, starting to walk.

John is shocked. "Really? Like, now?" he asks, running to catch up to Sherlock. He has really long strides. "Yes, John." Sherlock stops and turns around. "Now, which way is your house?"

John smiles. "Thata way." He points to the opposite direction of the direction that Sherlock is currently walking to.

"I knew that," Sherlock mumbles, and whooshes by John. He catches a light blush dusting Sherlock's cheeks.


	5. Déjà Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I'm sorry for this being posted two days late. Lack of internet will do that. Again, thank you to my fabulous beta [aiis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aiis), who despite being overloaded with work, still provided excellent feedback for this chapter. Thank you! Also, thank you to all that left beautiful comments. You all are amazing.

"Ready to meet my mum?"

"Not really."

"That's okay. I won't be ready to meet yours either."

John pulls a key out of his backpack, the lonely piece of metal the only thing hanging on his key chain. He unlocks the door, and they can see a stout woman wearing a flowery, threadbare apron standing in the kitchen. "John, love!" the woman— most likely John's mum— cries, rushes to John, and opens her arms. John stumbles into her hug and wraps his arms awkwardly around her middle. "Mum," John says, his voice muffled, "I want to introduce you to Sherlock." The taste of peaches swirls around his mouth, washing his teeth and tongue in it's sweetness.

Sherlock is standing on the porch quietly, shuffling his feet and watching John hug his mum with a small smile. "Sherlock who?" John's mum asks kindly.

"Sherlock Holmes, mum."

"Sherlock, welcome. Is he from school, John?" John's mother steps forward and hugs Sherlock tightly. When she pulls away, Sherlock looks a bit surprised, but quickly wipes the expression away, instead replacing it with an expression of happiness.

"Yeah, mum. Sherlock, this is my mum. Mum, this is Sherlock, my boyfriend."

John's mother looks from John to Sherlock, Sherlock to John, and realization dawns in her eyes. A smile grows on her face as she sees that John is grasping for Sherlock's hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. My manners aren't what they used to be. Come in, Sherlock." She pulls the door open even further and gestures widely for her son and his boyfriend to step into the house.

"My mom gets sort of flustered when I introduce a new friend," John whispers while they pass her, finally taking hold of Sherlock's hand and squeezing it tight.

"It's okay. I like your mother. She's... how do you say it... cool?" Sherlock lets out a small laugh.

John nudges Sherlock. "Hey, don't use that word around me. I love sweet, exquisite Sherlock who uses words that I don't understand."

They laugh, shoulders shaking and hands turning red from their clutching. Finally, they step into the living room. Their laughter dies down, and Sherlock suddenly looks... frightened. "John?" he asks, a hint of a whimper twisting around the syllable. His eyes widen in fear.

"Sherlock?" John's expression turns into one of worry. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock feels paralyzed, like his brain has been frozen and can't work. He doesn't know where and how he arrived in this strange home. For some reason, he can't breathe, and his hands start to shake.

"Hey. Look at me." John grasps Sherlock's chin with both hands in an attempt to make Sherlock focus on him. Sherlock jerks his head away, hands still shaking so hard that they brush against John's thighs.

"John, does Sherlock want some tea?" John's mum walks in. She sees the precarious situation, with Sherlock's terrified expression and John's pleading appearance and steps out again with a breathy, "Oh." She leaves with an air of doom clouding around her.

"John, I can't do this, I can't," Sherlock's voice is hoarse, like the calm before the storm. "I- I've never had a friend, I can't be in a relationship, we've only known each other for a few months, and I can't-"

"Sherlock. Please. Look at me? Sherlock, look at me." John braces his arms on Sherlock's biceps. Sherlock turns his head towards John's, albeit reluctantly. "I promise you, there is nothing that will hurt you here. My mother is absolutely delighted with you, Harry will fawn over you, and I will never, ever hurt you. It's... we've only known each other for a few months, yes, but we can, and will take it easy. Promise?"

Peaches and orange pop dance on his tongue.

Sherlock's mouth drops open a bit, his cupid bow lips widening at John's reassuring speech. "You..."

John smiles a bit, a single tear slipping down his cheek. "Yeah." _Am I crying because of Sherlock, or because of myself?_

They stand, their hands gripping each other's arms. John's head is buried in Sherlock's chest, and he breathes in his scent. Strawberries. His gut tells him that strawberries _should_  be what Sherlock tastes like, but isn't for some reason. Something wet plunks down into John's hair through his thoughts, and he gingerly looks up, his cheeks wet with tears.

Sherlock's eyes are glistening, the galaxies in his eyes rippling as tears gracefully drip down. Like rain, they drip down where they land onto John.

Fly? No, their tears don't fly. They fall, of course. Falling is just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination.

It seems like hours they spend in silence, and then he's suddenly hit with the realization that _this is something he's experienced before._  "This is like two days ago." His voice is blurred with tears, the last few words shaking out of his mouth.

"Yes, we always seem to have these moments, don't we?" Sherlock says between a sniff.

John gently untangles himself from Sherlock's arms, wiping his tears from his eyes. Sherlock blinks, clearly not ready to let go, but John grabs Sherlock's hands, holding them tight. "Sherlock, I'll never let anyone be rude to you. You're safe here, for as long as we're together."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow. "What if you leave me?"

John laughs. "Silly Sherlock. I'll never leave you."

But all Sherlock can think is, _that's what they all say before they leave._  

* * *

 "Hi."

John stands sheepishly in the doorway of the kitchen with Sherlock standing slightly behind him. They're holding hands. John's mum wipes her hands on her apron and grins hesitantly. "Everything alright, then?" she asks quietly. The soft hairs of a peach skin tickles John's tongue.

"Yeah, mum. We're fine. Everything's all sorted out. We're going to watch a bit of telly now, is that alright?"

"Sure, John. Sherlock, you... you okay?"

Sherlock jumps out of his thoughts. "Yeah, yeah I'm okay. Thanks, Mrs. Watson." The corners of his lips quirk up.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." Mrs. Watson turns back to her stove.

John nods, and smiles at Sherlock, who doesn't see John because he's smiling at Mrs. Watson.

The pair head to the living room again, and John turns the television on. He has to turn the volume up because the sizzling of the pans on his mother's stove top.

The Doctor Who opening card flashes on the screen, and John smiles, flumping onto the couch and pulling Sherlock down with him. Sherlock's head lands in John's lap, his legs curling around the edge of the couch. "Well, we're in a compromising situation, aren't we?" John breathes out, his voice deepening an octave.

Sherlock kicks his feet, straining to get off of John. "Piss off, John," he laughs, giving up and letting his head fall into John's lap.

John's expression turns into one of mock hurt. "You want me to piss off?" He starts to smirk. "But then, you wouldn't be able to have this." He gestures to his body, chest shaking with giggles.

Sherlock starts to chuckle, taking advantage of John's closed eyes as he stretches his neck up, trying to get into a sitting position.

Their laughter stops, and suddenly, there are a pair of hands trapping Sherlock's head. "John?" Sherlock questions, knowing, in his heart, what's going to happen.

"Yeah." And John brings his head towards Sherlock's, pausing momentarily before brushing his lips lightly against Sherlock's.

They pull away, electric sparks tingling through their lips. "Oh, god," John is saying, and he lunges towards Sherlock, pouncing onto his lips, arms curving around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock can feel the brief sensation of falling off the couch and onto the soft carpet, but his senses are dredged with John, all John, just John. Their arms twist around each other's, lips dancing as they smile into their kiss. John digs his fingers into Sherlock's curly hair, tugging as Sherlock wraps his legs around John's hips.

They gasp into the kiss, John trying to remember how to breathe, and Sherlock restraining the moans building up in his chest. Finally, finally they pull away, chests heaving, trying to gather up all the air in the world and shove it into their lungs. "That..." John pants, "was absolutely brilliant."

Sherlock grins, his cheeks flushed with love. "You really think so?"

"You're amazing."

"I know." John pulls on Sherlock's hair again in retaliation, and breaks a dam. Sherlock gasps, his eyes widening as noises rush out of him, noises that he didn't even know he could make.

John laughs, leaning closer to Sherlock's face. "You..." he attacks Sherlock's lips after every word, "are... the... most... beautiful... person... in... the... world." He kisses Sherlock's mop of hair. "And you're all mine."

The Doctor laughs on the telly in front of them.


	6. The First Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, guys. I'm so sorry. Throw tomatoes (or any kind of vegetable or fruit, really) at me. Please. I'm so sorry for not updating last week, and yesterday too... I'm sorry. Also, I am the bringer of bad news. Due to the overload of work that teachers are piling on us as it is the last few months before end of school, updates will no longer be every Monday. They will most likely be two weeks apart, but as I am currently getting rid of my procrastination and am more determined to binge write chapters, it is only a possibility. Pray for me. Thank you for being patient and leaving such lovely comments. Also, [aiis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aiis) again works their magic as they betaed this chapter in a flash. Enjoy this long awaited chapter!

It's winter break, but for once, John wants to go to school. School is the one place where he can see Sherlock for certain, but now that it's break, John has to go through the process of calling Sherlock on his new phone, asking him if he can come to his house, and then telling his mum that Sherlock is coming over. They go three days into break until they finally organize a set time for Sherlock to come over to John's. Sherlock goes over to John's house at 2:00 and leaves at 5:00. A daily schedule develops gradually, and they make the most of their precious three hours together.

Sherlock always arrives on time...

...until one day, Sherlock doesn't show up at 2:00. John sinks into a frenzy, stalking around the house and texting Sherlock frantically, thumbs flying across the screen so quickly that they're just blurs of flesh colored blobs. He texts:

_John (2:10) Are you okay? Harry stopped me from texting you until now, but I've finally grabbed the phone from her._

_John (2:15) Said I was too clingy._

_John (2:15) Am I?_

_John (2:16) Sherlock?_

_John (2:17) Sherlock, please answer me._  

He's just lowering himself on the couch for the seventh time when the doorbell rings. The ring of the bell storms its way through the house once before John rips the door open, crossing his arms, his phone loosely held in his left hand. "Sherlock, if you're ever late like this again I swear I'll break up with you-"

The UPS man stares confusedly at John before handing John a package and turning away, shaking his head. The man mutters something about _clingy teenagers._ John stares after him, box in hands, desperation flooding through his already desperate head.

"John?"

John turns around, his hands shaking. The box drops to the floor with a soft thump, but he doesn't notice. Mrs. Watson is standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a concerned look on her face. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"No... I don't... Sherlock isn't here, it's been twenty minutes and he's late..."

Mrs. Watson strides over to John and wraps her arms around him. "It's okay, John. Maybe there's something urgent that just happened."

"Maybe." John's voice is muffled.

His mother lets John go, giving her son a warm smile. "Don't worry," she whispers, picking the box up before heading back to the kitchen.

John lies on the couch, laying his phone on his stomach in hopes that it'll beep, signaling a text. He lies there for what seems hours (he doesn't want to check the time, fearing that it'll be past 5:00). Finally, he becomes more and more drowsy, his agitation slipping away with his consciousness.

* * *

"He's sleeping. Would you like to wait for him?"

"If I may."

John blinks blearily, seeing his mum and a dark haired stranger standing near the door. "Mum... who's that..." he drones off. Before he drifts off back to sleep, he sees a pale, smiling face. "Oh, Sher..."

"Shh... love. Sleep."

A blanket is placed lovingly over his limp body. Sherlock sits at John's feet, folding his hands together. His eyes flicker adoringly over John's figure. He smiles softly before curling up next to John, one leg thrown over John's. Through his drowsiness, he can faintly feel the warmth of another body pressed into his, and his agitation is soothed.

* * *

The next time Sherlock is late, John is laying on the sofa again, with one arm thrown weakly over his eyes. "Sherlock... where were you," he whispers desperately. He is so close to sleep, and though he is never tired, sleeps to forget. He tries to forget about Sherlock, the way he neglects their meetings though he always denies it. _No,_  he says, _no, I love you._  

What Sherlock means to say is that he doesn't. Love John, that is.

"Somewhere. Quiet now. Rest. Don't worry about me."

Sherlock always says that, but John can see the truth. With every visit, Sherlock is more ragged, his pupils dilated, throat always contracting to push out a raspy cough. His hands are always cold, though he owns a pair of leather gloves, and when he reaches to touch John, his movements are jerky. His lips, cracked and peeling. Teeth taste bitter and sour. John is always the one to pull away from soft kisses.

His beautiful angel's face looks like it's melting, with the sorrowful addition of deep bags and peeling skin. John can't look, for fear of his Sherlock running away and being replaced with another, one who would willingly delve into the depths of drugs.

He is late. Always, always late. With every day, it seems that Sherlock would allow John to sleep for longer and longer, and he barely sees him. The room would hold pools of darkness that had crept in long ago when Sherlock tiptoes in alongside the darkness. He would whisper to John, telling him not to worry, to rest, that he was fine. John knows he isn't.

And then, on the last day of the break, Sherlock doesn't show up. Two weeks of delayed visits, and now this. John can't take it. His heart pounds. He thinks of the cliche, where hearts break and are shattered. It doesn't feel like his heart is broken, merely missing something that wasn't there in the first place, thought it pretended to be. As the day passes by and the time they were supposed to spend together draws to a close, John wraps his arms around himself. He lay on the sofa, his breaths the only sound in the room. John's mother treads into the room, seeing John's small figure curled in the dark.

"Oh, John," she says, and kneels next to him.

The taste of peaches is drowned by the sour, salty taste of chlorine. It descends deep into his throat, burning everything it touches, his heart, ribs, and then his stomach. His tears singe his cheeks, and in his mind, they leave faint burn marks across his skin.

I knew this was coming, John reasons. They had only known each other for a few months. Of course Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to stay with him. There were others who were more interesting, more outgoing, more _normal._  

Never in his life had ever considered the thought that he would spend any day sobbing into his mother's shoulder.

When he's settling down to sleep, he finds a small note on his pillow. Rubbing at his already raw eyes, he picks it up and holds it close to his face to read.

_Your loss would break my heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's me from 5/3/16. I'm sorry to say that this fic will be delayed, because of some problems with my beta's computer. No worries, I'll continue to write chapters in advance, but will wait until their computer is back in shape. Thank you for being patient!


	7. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'ed. However, the fantastic [aiis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aiis) has started to write a fanfic, [Apoptosis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7310782/). It's great! I recommend it. And now, onto the chapter.

Break ends, school starts again. Everyone is acting like they usually do, and it's so strange. For John to have everything changed, to have nobody beside him, an empty feeling constantly within him, but everyone is the _same..._

Sure, you could say that he had done it many times pre- Sherlock, but that was barely surviving. It wasn't living.

Sherlock made him _live._ He knew they had so many more years of life left, but he knew that he was the one. The one that everyone searched for, _the one_  that everyone loved hearing stories about. And they could be high school sweethearts. Well, _could_ have.

Mr. Freeman doesn't say anything about _his_ absence, so John closes his eyes the entire period. John can hear their snickers, but it doesn't matter anymore, because _he's_  not here to hear them. Selfishly, he also doesn't want to taste anything. He'll die if he tastes one more home cooked, stupidly comforting meal.

At lunch, he leaves his food out instead of trying to force feeding it to _him._ John wonders if _he_ had just been sick the days he hadn't been to visit him. That would be a silly ending to so much trauma, though he somehow knew that it wasn't so.

Their murmurs haunt him as he walks home. Where the sidewalk was once a place for somewhat pleasant recollecting, it is now a place of deep, dark thoughts that he doesn't want. 

Everyone at home avoids him, not wanting to trip and stumble into John's pool of darkness.

When a taste floats into his mind, he dismisses it with a flutter of eyelids. He doesn't need any more reminders on how irregular he is now. He's already got it.

Before bed, he looks out onto the porch and sees a discarded phone book, torn from rain and muddied. John pulls it inside, and doesn't feel the drops of water and mud that land on his clothes.

He flips to the H directory. Eyes blankly scan the pages, turn the page... Holmer, Holmers, Holmgren, Holmlund, Holmon...

A variety of flavors, but no trace of his lost heart.

The next day, after a strangely comforting night of dreams sprinkled with glimpses, but never interaction, John heads to the school office to ask about his missing heart.

The secretary glances up at him as he walks in. He's twisting his hands around nervously. If he's not here... it defines everything. It breaks everything.

"Excuse me... but could you search for... Holmes? Sherlock Holmes. If he's in this school."

She nods, clicking, typing on her computer, and then shakes her head no. How could she be.. saying no?

John drifts through the day until he gets home. He realizes that he had never been to Sherlock's house. If Sherlock even had a house. What if he had only... imagined Sherlock?

It would make sense, as Sherlock was _perfect._ Him with his perfect curls, always tousled carefully in the wind, his all angled face, soft skin. Him laying on _John's_ bench, sitting like he owned the world. He owned John's world.

Homework abandoned, John spends the rest of the day curled up in his bed, dreaming up fantasies for him and a boy.

Actually, it had never occurred to John that he was dating a _boy._ Not a girl, never a girl. Maybe he was gay?

Probably not, as Sherlock was _fantasy._ He was _fantasy,_  had to be fantasy.

Of course, those lips... only he could have dreamed them up. And those eyes...

A horrible night of sleep accomplished, he steps out of his house to see a man leaning on an umbrella standing in front of a dark car. The same man as the one Sherlock had shown Jim... except he hadn't. Because he wasn't real. But how did John recognize him?

When John reaches the man, he raises an eyebrow. "John Watson?" he says.

John nods mutely while jam springs up from the depths of his cheeks.

"I am Mycroft Holmes."

Dark, dark cacao chocolate cake is slid between his lips and down his throat. He swallows down the flavor, though it's already traveled down his throat and is resting in his stomach, and he can feel a faint phantom weight.

"You may recognize me as Sherlock's brother."

John nods again, remains of cake stuck in his throat. _So Sherlock is real._

Mycroft opens the door, a clear invitation written all over the fresh leather cleanly layering the surface of the car.

"H- how do I know if you're lying? Or not?" John splutters out, throat not ready to speak.

"Oh, trust me."

John moves towards the car and slides into the innermost seat, farthest away from Mycroft.

"I know about your relationship with my brother." Mycroft slides into the car, the door swinging closed behind him.

John avoids Mycroft's eyes, though he can feel them. "Have you sent him away?" he asks, voice breaking at the end. _Damn it._

"Sherlock is... unstable. He would be better off by himself."

A burst of anger and burnt toast jumps up his throat. He can feel the oncoming of furious tears pushing at his eyelids, chlorine sprinkled on the toast. "You... you can't do that. Sherlock s- shouldn't be controlled by you," he sneers, though he tries so hard to keep his voice level.

Mycroft sighs, hands tightening on the wooden handle of his umbrella. "Sherlock doesn't know what's best for him. And you, John Watson, think you do?"

"I lo..." John doesn't want to say it. Not in the presence of someone he currently hates, someone he wants to hurt because he took Sherlock away from him. He closes his eyes to rid of the jam lumped in his mouth.

"Think about it, John. I've known him for sixteen years. You've known him for three months."

Mycroft draws in a breath, looking straight forward. The door next to John clicks open, and Mycroft's driver extends a hand. John grabs his bag and rushes into school. He doesn't want anything to do with Mycroft.

Not if he's the one who took his only treasure, the only thing he loved away.


	8. The Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a serious chapter. Trigger warnings for mentions of an abusive relationship and homophobic slurs.

He's standing on a train platform, watching the months of school blow past him. His hair is ruffled, clothes wrinkled, and he's left rubbing his dry eyes and breathing to replace the air stolen from his lungs.

Graduation is depressing and he feels stupid. Everyone else has people they can celebrate with, _want_ to celebrate with, and John doesn't want anyone but Sherlock. He can taste sweet sour sugar crystals dipped in chlorine, and he needs something to drink, something to drown in, something to get rid of the saccharine flavor. There's nothing.

Everyone else also knows what they want to do with their lives. John doesn't really know, but he doesn't really care about anything so he enlists in the army. His family hates him now and everything, maybe because they know he wants to die on the battlefield. A heroic death. Sherlock would roll his eyes. 

Barts University accepts him, and he learns how to cauterize wounds, tie a tourniquet, and how to get into dangerous situations so he can quench his thirst for dopamine. The adrenaline rushing throughout his head, blood pumping through his veins, the thrill of death carries him through the years of army medicine practice.

D-day comes. Deployment day. Gone are the days of training and clean rooms. The world is full of dust and all he can taste are grits, all he can hear are the pained groans of broken men, all he can see are bullets and bodies. John saves countless lives, all of them forever thankful. Some ask what they can do to repay John, and he's tempted to ask if they can find a man named Sherlock for him. He never asks.

Sometimes he sees death.

In the eyes of a man, the battlefield is one to be avoided, one to salute to, and while standing in your home, you pity those who stand somewhere else. In the eyes of a soldier, it is heaven and hell all at once.

Sometimes he just wants to _break._

There is no way to scrub all the blood off his hands every day, so he doesn't try anymore. Blood smears on his hands, it cakes under his nails, and he scratches at his palms when he can't sleep. Flakes of red flutter onto his blanket and he calls it his greatest masterpiece.

Sometimes he feels like he _is_ breaking.

Finally, after avoiding everything so long, his legs are tied back to reality as his shoulder is shot. The cane they gave him binds him to the Earth so he can never leave. Or maybe it is his ticket out.

He had wondered how the soldiers he fixed felt when he had tied cotton around their bodies, sawed off limbs, and emptied syringes. Now he knows.

The blur of intense brown transforming into crisp white rushes past him and rumples his clothes. Someone tugs cotton sheets up to his chin. His clothes are being wrinkled, tugged on, cried on. He can't see the woman next to him, but he can smell her. The scent of alcohol haunts him, and sometimes drops of orange pop land on his tongue. Maybe he's dreaming. He hasn't seen his sister in forever, it seems, and he had forgotten she existed outside of the fiery landscape of Afghanistan.

Somewhere else, a man with dark locks dreams too. The man pictures a house, one that was new and clean. A boy leads him into the house, grasping onto his hand. Their fingers curl together and it makes them smile. The boy flickers between a short blonde with a blinding smile, and then to a soft, intelligent raven haired individual. As they settle in the living room, a larger figure, maybe even a... _father figure..._ steps into the room and suddenly everything is cold. The figure yells, but it sounds like wind to the man's ears. He can faintly hear screams of _faggot_ and _queer,_ and then feels a hand wrenched from his own. His body curls up in the corner of the couch as the boy is dragged off, into the corner of the room where only the sounds of sobs and skin against skin can be heard. Again, the figure draws his fists back and back again, until he leaves the boy alone. By then, it's too late.

Stop dreaming, he tells himself. So he thinks of something else. Or rather, _someone_ else.

The man slips out of the house, collapsing on the sidewalk. And then he stops dreaming. After a proper goodbye from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, John's on his own. He quietly hopes he'll find someone who he can share a flat with, but he knows that life isn't that kind. Barts thankfully accepts him again, but it isn't the same. People know that's he's scarred, full of memories of the battlefield, and they know not to mess with him. There's a timid woman who is always rushing in and out of the labs with cups of coffee in various stages of emptiness, but she never talks to him, only stares. He asks around and finds out that she's a pathologist. John doesn't know why he does that. He doesn't want to talk to her anyways.

He sees another lady cautiously entering Barts from time to time, exiting various labs with a smile on her face. She is blonde, always dressed appropriately for the weather. Her figure is dainty, and she is graceful. John doesn't tell himself who she reminds him of.

One day, he catches her just as she's leaving Barts and gets her name and number. _Mary Elizabeth Morstan._ An artificially flavored grape lolly is shoved into his mouth, and he's startled by the intense flavor. He hasn't had sweets for a while. Maybe she is what he needs.

Their first date is to a coffee shop, and it's soft and sweet. Mary has a laugh that can make him smile like he hasn't in so long. He still doesn't let himself say who he imagines when he kisses her for the first time.

She is like a breath of fresh air. Gone are the people who know about his tarnished background, gone are the people pitying him because of his mental condition. She doesn't know, and she doesn't have to know. John will keep this one secret. The one thing he doesn't realize is that he isn't the only person who can keep secrets.

Thirty dates later, John books a reservation at The Landmark. It is the perfect time to ask Mary to spend the rest of her life with him, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do they part.

John just wishes he could make his vows to someone else. Someone he would preferably like to stop pining over.

Surprisingly, Mary says yes to his proposal, and they decide to have a spring wedding. They plan, and plan, until all the decisions are made, though he doesn't understand most of the decisions they _have_ made. He just leaves most of the deciding to Mary. Everything's still a bit of a blur. He still can't believe he's getting married.

 _So soon after Sherlock?_ he can hear someone saying. He waves them away.

Finally, the day of the wedding comes. The ceremony goes by in a flash, but he can remember that most of the church was filled with Mary's family and friends.

After the ceremony, John wants to break down. He can't take any more. All the people that he has to make small talk with, all the people that he doesn't know. The only thing he can do is look at Mary and crack a small smile. He has a wife. He's normal now. Isn't he?

They go home, Mary looking especially voluptuous, though John is too exhausted to act on it. Before slipping into bed, they share a sweet kiss, and lay on their sides of the bed. The last thought John has before slipping away is that he misses his first ever friend. Misses him so badly.


	9. unfortunately there is an end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :(

hello everyone who has been following this story!!!!

i don't really know how to say this, but i'll be blunt. i'm not in the sherlock fandom anymore. 

it hurts so much to say that, when the fandom was such a large part of my life. however, since season four, i have felt my interests waning. as bad as it sounds, i just don't care about sherlock anymore. 

the showrunners made too many mistakes, and i couldn't forgive and forget. 

this story was my favorite. it was the only thing i had written without looking back and wanting to delete. my heart clenches when i say that i can't continue this. 

there is one last unfinished chapter i have not posted. maybe it will go up, along with the plans i had for the rest of the four chapters. i want you and this story to have closure. 

again, i am so sorry that i cannot complete this. nonetheless, i hope you enjoyed your time here. thank you for reading while it lasted. 


End file.
